Most time-capsule apps are an email scheduler with a nicer UI. The hard part was never the video, it's making sure it reaches you a decade later. Uploads start the moment you pick a file. We collect a backup contact since emails die over 10 years. One price, 14-day refund, no subscription. Built to actually still be running in 2036, because that's the whole premise.
I built Me in 10 Years because I became fascinated by how quickly we forget who we were. We take hundreds of photos and videos, but most of them eventually get buried in our camera rolls and cloud storage. I wanted to create something that would make people stop for a moment and capture who they are right now: their thoughts, dreams, fears, and ambitions, and then give that version of themselves a chance to speak to them ten years later.
The problem I was trying to solve was not really about storing a video. It was about preserving a moment in your life that you might otherwise forget.
The idea started quite simply: record a video, seal it, and receive it ten years later. But as I worked towards the launch, I started thinking less about the technology and more about the emotional experience. How do you make someone actually want to do this? How do you make the moment of recording feel meaningful, and the moment of receiving it ten years later unforgettable? That shifted the product from being just a video storage tool into something closer to a personal time capsule, a small promise you make to your future self.